Chapter 69 - What Makes a House a Home

First night without Cas. Dean doesn't know what to do, and is so nervous he can't think of anything to cook, so ends up ordering takeout. This is probably a mistake: his head's such a mess that cooking something would likely calm him down, ground him. But it's too late, anyway.

They watch a movie while they eat their takeout.

Claire chooses what they watch—Jack doesn't know many, if any movies. His dad didn't let him watch them. Claire puts on Lady Bird, which, considering its depiction of charged and strained parent-child relationships, seems a little loaded.

Jack doesn't appear to pick up on this, though. He spends most of the film intrigued, head tilted to the side in a manner which tragically reminds Dean of Cas, though he resents it, squinting at the screen.

"Lady Bird is…" He says, halfway through, head still inclined slightly.

"Just like Claire," Dean nods, and Claire grins.

"That's a compliment. She's fucking awesome."

"She's meant to be a bulshy adolescent—"

"So I guess you relate to her a lot, too?" Claire quips back.

Dean rolls his eyes. Jack is still frowning thoughtfully.

"Her mother says hurtful things to her."

Dean's jaw threatens to lock.

"Yeah, no shit," Claire laughs.

"She's trapped in a cycle of it."

Claire glances worriedly at Dean before answering Jack.

"Yeah, I guess."

"But she's dismissive."

"Yes."

"The relationship is broken."

"It," Claire flickers, "it seems that way."

"Is there any hope?" Jack asks. Dean's insides tense up. "Any hope, for a relationship, like that?"

"I don't know," Claire looks up, and over at Dean. "I guess we'll find out."

Dean grits his teeth.

The days don't exactly ease up. Jack is awkward and visibly flighty whenever Dean is around, and Dean is regularly unable to bite down on the unkind comments and answers to Jack's questions which so often escape his mouth. When Claire leaves for camp, both Jack and Dean are terrified. What the hell, now?

It's a Monday morning, and Jack still needs to go into school—so at least half of the day is filled out. But what about when he gets back? And what about this week? And what about Friday? And then it'll be the weekend. What then?

Jack offers to help make dinner. Because Claire's away Dean points out that they can make something with actual meat in, so they have real meat burgers. Dean struggles not to snap and offer barbed comments to Jack while they're prepping, and he thinks about what Jack said about Lady Bird's mom entering cycles of hurtful comments and not knowing how to escape them. He thinks that both he and Jack have entered that cycle, but in different ways—but when it's boiled down, in the same way, for the same reason: a father who didn't know how to love them kindly—and next, he thinks about how much he hates himself.

Cas calls at dinner time, obviously worried about how things will be going on Claire's first day of absence. Dean puts him on speaker in the middle of the table while they eat, and it solves the problem of wondering what to say or how to talk to Jack. The boy tells Cas what he did in Chemistry and how he thinks it might be his favourite class, maybe after math, and Dean thinks what a weird fucking kid and fortunately doesn't say this.

Tuesday crawls by. They go to the grocery store after school so Jack can pick out some food for the weekend this trip is so different to the trips Dean and Claire take to do groceries, filled with teasing and grins and eye rolls and quips. Jack is just quiet and thoughtful and spends a lot of the time frowning.

"So, what do you want to do, this weekend?" Dean asks, as Jack picks up a pineapple like he's never seen one of the damn things before and turns it over in his hands.

"Oh," Jack says, looking up. "I don't know. I'd thought you would want to… I don't know?"

"Want to what?" Dean frowns defensively.

Jack shrugs.

"Spend some time on your own."

Dean frowns, though he doesn't know what Jack is accusing him of.

"What do you like to do, with your spare time?" Dean asks, and is mortified when he remembers that Jack has been a part of their family for months, and Dean doesn't have any idea what the boy actually likes. Apart from chemistry class, apparently. But even this was news to him, last night.

Jack shrugs again.

"There's the Natural History Museum?" He suggest.

"Great," Dean tries not to roll his eyes.

He invites Sam to join them that weekend, knowing how much Sam likes Jack—and vice versa—and feeling, not for the first time, a little jealous and resentful of it. The two walk ahead and Jack points animatedly at exhibits while Sam smiles and explains things to him, or listens, feigning—or maybe not feigning?—interest, to what Jack has to say, long and sprawling speeches, about them.

But it least it blots at the awkwardness between Dean and Jack.

Dean trudges several paces behind them, at all times, sometimes whole metres of distance widening between them. His jaw is set hard. He scowls at their backs and feels jealous of both of them and angry at Jack for preferring Sam to him and angry at Sam for being kind to the boy who doesn't even believe Dean deserves basic human rights.

But before he knows it, it's Monday—and hey, only one week to go. And Claire'll be back, and Dean'll stay sane, and then a little longer, and Cas'll be home, too. And he'll hopefully be less angry toward Dean for being cold to Jack. Well… more than cold. But they're halfway through: have knocked down a week alone together—a week of silent dinners and Jack spending the evenings sat in front of the TV watching Scooby Doo, smiling inanely, Dean sat at the dining room table with his headphones in, frowning over to the weird teenager sat on the floor beaming at a kids show.

But on Monday, at dinner, Jack looks up from his plate of noodles, and surprises Dean.

"You fish," he says, and Dean falters.

"Uh, yeah," he confirms. "How did you know?"

"I saw the rods in the garage."

"Why were you in the garage?" The question comes out with a harder edge than Dean intends. Or maybe it doesn't—maybe Dean's just gotten used to speaking to Jack in a certain kind of way.

"I was looking at your car."

"Why were you looking at my car?" Dean frowns, leaning forward.

"It's very old," Jack says, and Dean flares with defensiveness.

"Yeah, and still runnin' smooth as anything—"

"Yes," Jack agrees. "Absolutely. How?"

"Well," Dean is taken aback. "I guess I work hard at it. Take good care of her."

"Her?" Jack raises his eyebrows. Dean glares.

"Now, don't make fun of me—"

"You do repairs on… her?" Jack asks, and says the 'her' like he's trying to copy Dean's accent and manner, like there's something important in the way he says it.

"Yeah," Dean confirms. "I do."

"How?"

"I," Dean frowns again. He hesitates. "You're interested?"

"It—she—is very beautiful. And it's fun learning how things work."

And so, somehow, that evening, he and Jack end up working on Dean's car together, while the sun sinks steadily through the sky. But Dean hardly notices. He teaches Jack the names of the most important parts, gives him a good foundation knowledge for the more complicated stuff, shows Jack how to check the engine and explains what each thing does, shows him how to change a tire, how to check the oil, shows him what the underside of the car looks like and points out all the different components and Jack takes it all in with big excited eyes, and before he knows it, it's dark outside. The garage door is swung up and open and Mary is apparently attracted to the garage light like a moth.

"You know it's like, half eleven, right?" Mary raises her eyebrows. "What are you guys doing?"

"Dean's teaching me about his 'baby'," Jack beams excitedly over to Mary. Dean flushes as Mary snorts.

"He still calls it that?"

"What should he call it?" Jack asks with a frown.

"How you were ever popular in school, Dean…" Mary glances at Dean and shakes her head.

"Can we help you?" Dean raises his eyebrows.

"Yeah, you can check your phone. Cas texted me. Apparently he's called you, like six times, and you haven't picked up. Seems he thought something was wrong."

"Nothing's wrong," Dean shakes his head, defensively.

"Nothing's wrong," Jack repeats, copying Dean's tone and stance. It almost makes Dean smile. Then Jack breaks out into a beam, losing his attempt at mimicking Dean's persona. "I'm having the best time, ever!"

"Uh-huh?" Mary asks. "Well, I'll let Cas know…"

"It's fine," Dean calls after her as she turns and walks away, back across the road, "I can call him—"

"But you're teaching me about cars," Jack says, expression falling. Dean sighs.

"I was," Dean corrects. "But like Mary said. It's late, and it's a schoolnight. C'mon," he beckons Jack with his head. "You need to be getting to bed."

Jack visibly deflates as Dean turns out the garage light and swings down the door.

"Listen, kid," Dean says, as they make their way up the porch steps and back into the house, "I'll teach you some more, tomorrow." His face falls. "Wait, you didn't have any homework to do, tonight, did you?"

Jack smiles bemusedly and shakes his head.

"It doesn't matter," he says, and Dean gives him a look that says yes, it does, but Jack isn't so good at picking it up, because he beams and exclaims, "What matters is that I had the best night ever!"

"Yeah," Dean sighs, though a smile does catch at his lips. "You've said. C'mon. We'll do some more, tomorrow. But after you've done your homework."

He checks in on Jack about a half hour later. He's fast asleep, scooby PJs on, in his room, bedroom light still on. Dean tuts but there's something touching about Jack's expression and how safe is seems he feels, light on, door open, fast asleep.

Jack hasn't seemed to feel safe around Dean since the day he arrived.

And Dean hasn't around Jack, either. But maybe… has something shifted?

The next day, Dean catches Jack jumping off the schoolbus and running down the path to the house.

"I'm here!" He beams, calling out into the house, out of breath. Dean greets him from the study, and Jack appears at the doorway, lanky, messy haired, bright eyed. "Car?"

"Nope," Dean smirks. "Homework."

Jack dumps his bags at the bottom of the stairs and grumbles something under his breath—what is he, Claire, now?!—But an hour later, he's at the door of Dean and Cas's study, insisting he's finished his work and that he's ready to learn some more about the car.

And maybe it's how eager he is, or the fact that he's such a quick learner that means Dean pretty much runs out of things to say, but after about an hour poring over the car, Dean asks Jack if he'd like to learn how to drive it.

Jack face lights up with disbelief.

It's a kind of lovely sight.

"Seriously?" He asks. "You—you'd teach me?"

"Sure," Dean shrugs, trying to be offhand.

"But I'm not old enough—"

"Pfft," Dean dismisses, waving a hand. "This isn't a busy road. And You can drive up towards the farms. There won't be any trouble."

In the car, Dean tries not to get nervous.

It's on him, if this goes badly wrong—after all, he entrusted his car into the hands of a minor. But Jack is obviously worried and flighty, which doesn't make Dean feel any kind of easy.

"Okay, put in in park, start it," Dean says, and as the engine chokes, "oh boy."

But she starts up, and he smiles reassuringly in answer to Jack's determined, troubled gaze.

"There we go."

They crawl down the street to begin with, and yet the force with which Jack breaks, suddenly, still nearly gives Dean whiplash.

"Okay, alright," he reassures as Jack huffs and steels himself, "keep goin'."

Jack tries, but quickly groans and stops the car again.

"Look," he says, and sounds sad and frustrated, "I'm not very good at this."

Dean is strangely reminded of himself, and how hard he took every instance of failure when he was a kid. How he still takes failure.

How he's handled his own perceived failure at parenting Jack: by outright rejecting him.

His heart hurts for a moment and he stubbornly redirects his attention, not comfortable with the hurt or regret stinging him.

"You're doing just fine," Dean says. "Try using one foot, not two, and just relax, take it smooth—don't overthink it. Here we go," he says, as Jack breathes in deep and starts up again.

"Okay," Jack nods, breathing the word in.

"See, huh?" Dean beams, as Jack picks up the speed, and tries not to comment on the fact that the car is veering left and right. "Alright," as Jack steadies out a little. Jack starts driving smoothly. Dean puts on some of his music and grins. "And 'cause Cas isn't here, I can put this on."

Jack breaks out into a smile.

"He doesn't like this stuff?" He asks, gesturing to the car stereo as some good, old fashioned, classic rock thumps out.

"Not at all."

Jack laughs.

"But you do?"

"It's called classic rock for a reason."

Jack does that thing where he tries to mimic Dean's tone again. Not out of mockery, not at all.

"Yeah," he nods, like he has any idea what they're talking about, like his biological father wasn't some religious extremist who only let him listen to popular hymns. "Totally."

"What do you think?" Dean asks. Jack beams at Dean excitedly.

"It's like I'm you!"

"No, it's not," Dean shakes his head, embarrassed but… touched. "Eyes on the road, buddy."

Dean directs Jack to further outskirts than even they live on, away from any chance of company.

At one point, Jack glances over at Dean and notes his arm trailing out the window, and copies it. Dean can't stop the small, affectionate laugh that escapes him at this. The Kansas sun beats down on the roof of the car. Fields of wheat roll by like a golden-brown sea.

"This is the best day ever!" Jack exclaims.

Dean glances at the expression on Jack's ordinarily serious features. The kid's beaming, eyes wide, fingers tapping excitedly on the wheel.

And he has to agree.

That night, after dinner, they settle down to watch Scooby Doo, together. Zola rolls about on the floor in front of them and bothers them both for attention, Jack scratching absent-mindedly at the dog's ears as he laughs loudly at all the gags. Dean can't help but chuckle, himself.

Okay, so he gets what the kid means. The show's pretty fucking good.

"You watched this, when you were young?" Jack asks, turning to Dean.

"Hell, I think it's so old my mom might've even watched it."

"It's the greatest thing, ever," Jack states, and Dean smirks.

"Uh-huh? Well, I definitely liked it as a kid."

Quiet for a moment.

And then, perhaps to test the waters, though he really couldn't say for sure, Dean finds himself sharing,

"I, uh, I used to have a crush on Fred."

"Fred?" Jack repeats with a frown. "A crush?"

"That's what I said, isn't it?" Dean asks, and his walls start going up, and he's ready to lash out again, after two days of not just peace, but… bubbling contentment.

Jack's frown sets a little heavier. He shakes his head.

"I don't see it," he says. And, at Dean's taken-aback expression, "He's so smug."

Dean stops short for a moment, taken aback completely. That wasn't the response he'd expected, or dreaded. He snorts.

"Right," he laughs, "I guess he kind of is."

"And you find that attractive?" Jack asks, and still looks very serious.

"Well, I didn't say that—but—" Is Dean actually about to run through the types of men he finds attractive with his homophobic foster son? No. "—Well, I was a kid, wasn't I? I wasn't gonna be discerning."

"Castiel isn't smug."

"No—well," Dean catches himself, and laughs, "you don't know him as well as I do."

"So he is smug?"

"No," Dean says quickly. "And don't tell him I even joked about it."

"I won't," Jack nods, earnest as ever.

"I appreciate it."

"Castiel says you have known each other for nearly thirty years."

Dean wonders what else Jack and Cas talk about, when they talk about Dean. Thrills of worry chase through him.

"Uh-huh," Dean confirms. "It's been a while."

"He must be a very important part of your life."

"Uh, yeah. Of course."

"That's nice," Jack nods. "I like Castiel, too."

On the TV, Scooby and Shaggy are preparing a tower of pancakes, opening their mouths in their trademark way, stupidly big, to eat them all at once. Jack is grinning.

"You wanna make pancakes tomorrow?" Dean finds himself asking. Jack looks at him. "For breakfast?"

"I've never made them before," he says.

"What?"

"I don't know how."

Dean has to stop himself from sputtering.

"Your dad never taught you?"

"We didn't do that kind of thing together," Jack shrugs.

"Well, that's decided. It's a childhood necessity to spend at least some mornings sitting and eating pancakes until you feel sick. I'll teach you how to make 'em."

The next morning, before school, they make and eat about a dozen pancakes each.

"You know," Dean says, feeling ready to explode as he chases syrup around the plate with his last bit of pancake, "me and Cas and Cas's dad used to make these, all the time."

Jack gives Dean a look as if encouraging him to continue.

"Yeah," Dean says, uncertain, uncertain for a lot of reasons. "First morning of every vacation, he'd lay out all the ingredients, and we'd all make 'em together—and of course make a huge mess. Right here, in this kitchen."

"Castiel speaks of his father with a lot of love."

"Yeah," Dean nods, throat tightening. "I'll bet. He was a good man." Dean swallows, steeling himself, slipping out of this particularly vulnerable emotional range. "His speciality was blueberry pancakes," Dean says, more matter-of-fact. "He did 'em so good."

Jack gives him a funny kind of look that says he know exactly what Dean just did, and isn't fooled by it, and absolutely isn't impressed.

He looks like Cas.

"I don't know if I have memories like that with my father," he says. Dean swallows.

"No? Then what did you guys used to do, together?"

"Not make pancakes," Jack huffs out a strange and strangled laugh, taking one of his last mouthfuls. Dean watches warily. "Not…" He frowns down at his plate. "I think I made him angry, often." Dean doesn't know what to do with this information, or what exactly Jack means by it. Or what Jack wants him to do with it. "I'm… I think… Living with you and Castiel," Jack says thoughtfully. "It has made me wonder…"

"Made you wonder?"

"What was your father like?" Jack asks, ignoring Dean's question, and Dean starts back.

"Uh—" He sputters.

"Castiel says he was not always very good."

"He was—he was better than yours was, all things being honest, Jack."

"Hmm…" Jack frowns down at his plate. "But you didn't make pancakes with him?"

"No," Dean admits, vaguely amused that this now seems to be Jack's measure of a good or bad dad. If only things were that simple, he almost chuckles, then he'd be a good dad to Jack. "But—but he did teach me stuff. Stuff about cars. How to catch a football. And… We did go fishing together."

"Fishing," Jack looks up. "And you still fish."

"Yeah."

"Even though your father did it with you."

"It didn't ruin fishing for me, if that's what you're asking," Dean says. "It actually—it could be pretty beautiful. Looking over big, green, still waters. Sitting quietly, waiting for something to catch. Gives you perspective. Time to really think. Those… Those were the times I felt most accepted by him."

"And that was important to you," Jack says. Dean coughs.

"Yeah," he admits. "Yeah. It always was."

The moment stills, but is ruined when Jack glances up at the clock on the wall, and shovels the last of the pancake in his mouth.

"I'm gonna miss the bus," he frets, and practically trips out of the kitchen and scrambles to get his sneakers on.

Dean gets up as Jack fumbles for his belongings. He leans against the doorframe of the kitchen and smirks.

"Alright, kid," he says, as Jack stuffs his books into his bag. "You have a good day."

"Lunch!" Jack exclaims, but Dean is already on it, and tosses the sandwich bag over to him.

"Get going, boy. Maybe later this week I'll take you fishing."

Jack glances up from where he stuffs his lunch into his bag, with a disbelieving smile draped across his features.

"Really?"

"Uh-huh. Now get outta here. Nothing's more embarrassing than being dropped off late to school by your dad."

Dad.

Jack mouths the word, which is what makes Dean realise he used it in the first place.

Did he really just say it?

"I wouldn't be embarrassed," he promises, and Dean's heart pangs, strangely. Then, "Bye—Dean. Dad. Bye dad."

"Alright…" Dean rubs the back of his neck, chest tight with something.

Jack swings open the door and runs out, down the porch steps, feet slapping against the ground.

Dean watches him go, leaning against the front door, which the kid left hanging open. Dean isn't even ticked off. Once Jack has clambered on the bus, Dean waves, and closes it.

They decide to go fishing on Friday.

But every night until then, Dean finds something to do with Jack which he'll enjoy. One of the pipes bursts upstairs on Wednesday evening, and Jack is fascinated with how to fix it—watching over Dean's shoulder, helping out, obviously enjoying both the mechanics of DIY and the fact of making himself useful. Dean shows him what to do and gets him to finish off the job. Jack is grinning proudly.

Thursday night Dean gets out all his classic rock records, and they lie in the living room listening to them with a couple of root beers between them. Jack asks questions about the music but then somehow drifts on to ask about Dean's mom and brother like he's putting a puzzle together, all mechanical and serious.

Friday rolls around, and Jack runs in after school. The first week of the two being alone, Dean would catch him trudging slow and worried up the garden path, making the process of reaching the door last as long as possible. Now it swings open as he bursts inside, swinging back and hitting the wall with his enthusiasm.

"Dean!" He shouts, dropping his bag at the bottom of the stairs. "I'm back!"

"Yeah, no shit," Dean chuckles, as the house shakes with the force of Jack's return. He saves his work and shuts his laptop, standing up. "I'm in here," he says from the study, and Jack appears at the door.

"Hello," Jack smiles expectantly. "Fishing."

"What about it?" Dean teases, but obviously Jack doesn't get it, and so Dean has to spend the next few minutes reassuring the kid that, no, he hasn't forgotten about their fishing plans as he gets his shoes on, and legitimates his assurances by picking up all their gear from where Dean left them leaning beside the front door, which Jack all but flew by as he jumped the steps of the porch,.

They pack the car and drive to a good river—Dean knows the perfect spot, and tells Jack this, which the kid treats as very serious and important information. Jack radiates excited energy as he bounces his knees in the passenger seat and tells Dean about his day.

They set up on some boulders beside the river, big rocks which tumble down into the waters. It's a beautiful spot but Jack doesn't seem particularly able to appreciate it, is only eager to start. Dean shows Jack how to bait and cast his line, and then, he says, it's a waiting game, and Jack keeps on repeating the phrase 'it's a waiting game' very matter-of-factly back to Dean afterwards, like he's an expert on the matter all of a sudden. The kid is one in a million.

Dean is the first to catch something, of course—he's been doing this for years, after all—and is quick to reassure Jack. But the boy is fascinated by Dean's catch, which is a goldeye, and thrashes about violently after being caught.

"Yeah, watch out for its teeth," Dean advises. "When I was eight, I got bit by one of these bastards. Should've gotten stitches, but dad…" He trails off. Jack nods and shares a story about his own father injuring him in a fit of rage and being adamant afterwards that Jack didn't need to go to hospital. It makes Dean's insides squirm, his head reel with pity and revulsion. He tells Jack that his anecdote is very different to Jack's. Jack shouldn't confuse them.

The kid catches a chub a little later, but it's so small that they release it, though not before taking pictures—Jack's first catch!—and sending them to Ellen and Mary and Sam and just about everyone Dean can think of.

Lines cast again, waiting, Jack says,

"You and your father did this."

Dean hesitates.

Jack continues.

"It was your happiest memory of him."

Dean straightens up, taken aback, but… intrigued.

"I didn't say that."

"It was how you said it," Jack smiles at the water. "I could tell."

Dean swallows.

"You're, uh—you're surprisingly perceptive, Jack."

But Jack doesn't seem to hear.

"My favourite thing, about Castiel being away, has been getting to spend more time with you." Dean's heart pangs as the teen speaks. "It's time together that matters."

"Yeah?"

"I was very afraid when Castiel first left," Jack says, but doesn't even say this like it's a confession.

He just says it. He could outstrip even Cas for candidness.

"Yeah," Dean squirms, guilt crawling up his guts. "I'm sorry…"

"But I've made some of the best memories of my life with you over the past few days," Jack smiles warmly. "I would've hated to have missed that."

"Well, who would've thought hanging out with me would make you sentimental?"

"Castiel says you feel very intensely."

Dean squints.

"Now, does he. What else does he say?"

"That you have trauma, like me."

Dean shifts uncomfortably.

"Jack, I don't know how to tell you this, but what I went through… It was a dream, compared to what your dad did to you."

"Castiel says we measure trauma by its impact on the survivor."

Dean presses his lips together.

"And what impact has yours had on you?" He asks. "How do you measure it?"

Jack shrugs.

"I'm still figuring that out," he says, and he says it honestly. A pause. "I don't understand all of it. Sometimes I feel like I have the wrong brain. I can barely remember the worst things my dad did to me. The case worker tells me about them, but my head's all foggy. It's strange—years of my life, lost in the mists. And they seem mistier, now, I'm out of them."

"That makes total sense, man," Dean reassures.

"But I like you and Castiel's home. I like you and Castiel and Claire. You all have… a strange love, which I'm not used to," he confesses, and Dean prickles. "I thought love was something hard. Like putting a wall up. Maybe trapping someone. Often hurting them. But I'm starting to think that's not what it is. I'm starting to think that's not what it is, at all. Sometimes love is making pancakes in morning. Sometimes it's sitting quietly and being. Sometimes it's teaching someone something. Like about cars. Or fishing."

Dean blinks at stares at the frothing water.

"All of that makes me think that what my—my old father told me about love, about—" he glances to Dean and his gaze changes from honest and calm to suddenly nervous, "—about the different people we can love—the people who some people love… all of that makes me think that he was wrong, about that stuff. How can I trust what someone who's so bad at loving has to say about it?" He asks, and Dean shrugs, muscles tight around his shoulders. "And I see the way you and Castiel love Claire, and how you treat her—and I see the way you and Castiel love each other, and treat each other, and I think… those are people I should learn about love from."

"Right," Dean nods, blood rushing in his ears, though he isn't sure why.

"And the way you treat me—"

"I haven't been treating you any kind of good, Jack," Dean's brows slope, "I'm sorry—"

"This past week you've made me feel like—like the things I like, and the things I have to say, are important," Jack smiles.

"Well, that's because they are—"

"I'm not used to it," Jack repeats. "I think I'd like to be, though."

"Yeah," Dean says softly. "I'd like you to be, too."

"I'm sorry for the hurtful things I've said."

"Don't worry about it—"

"No, I think I will," Jack frowns, with signature seriousness. "I suppose it's like swallowing poison. Sometimes it gets sicked up."

Dean nods, eyes burning.

"You're pretty wise, little guy," he says.

"Maybe. Maybe I'm just learning. Learning from you," Jack says, and smiles. "You're a good teacher."

Jack catches a striper and Dean cheers—it's not small, either, and the kid won't stop beaming and when Dean tries to take a picture of him and the fish, Jack insists that he take a selfie with all three of them—Jack, Dean, and the bass.

They head home not long after and cook up the bass, smoking the other fish for a later date. Dean shows Jack how to make thick cut fries from scratch and sends a picture of their meal to Cas.

"It's like fancy fish and chips," Dean grins, photographing Jack and his plate of food.

"What's that?" Jack frowns at the moment the shutter goes, meaning the photo is Jack looking quintessentially bewildered at the camera. Dean grins and doesn't want to take another—this one's perfect. He sends it to Castiel.

"It's like, traditional British takeout. Thick fries—they call 'em chips—and battered fish."

"But this isn't battered," Jack gestures to the fish on his plate.

"Nope," Dean shakes his head. "'Cause I believe, and passionately, that it's better simple. Cast iron pan, butter, lemon. That's all you need for these bad boys."

"Why are they bad?" Jack asks. Dean grins and shakes his head.

"Figure of speech," he explains. "Go on kid," he says, picking up his knife and fork, "start your meal. It's no use getting it fresh if you're just gonna let it go cold."

They take Zola on a long walk through the woods the next day, and Dean shows Jack the treehouse he and Cas made. Jack is enchanted by it, seriously impressed—more by the method of building it than the romantics of having a treehouse in the middle of a forest, but Dean is only just starting to learn and appreciate how Jack's brain works. The kid quizzes Dean on the process of its construction, how long it took, what they used to build it.

"Man," Dean rubs his eyes, "it was a long time ago. I can't remember that well. My dad definitely helped."—Probably just glad to see Dean involved in something as masculine as construction.— "C'mon, let's keep moving."

They've taken their rods with them, and find a stream smaller than yesterday's to fish in, catching and returning a few shiners as Zola sniffs about, intrigued by the fish they catch, a little wary of the water, trotting up and downriver and occasionally paddling in the shallows. Dean catches a white bass, Zola eventually jumps into the middle of the stream and gets soaked, bounding out only to soak both Dean and Jack by shaking dry. Jack grins and wrinkles his nose—it makes Dean smile to himself. At this, they decide to call it a day.

Sunday is their last day before Claire comes back home. Dean asks Jack what he wants to do, and he says he wants to build a treehouse in the back garden.

Dean laughs warmly and says that there's probably not enough time for this one in just a day—it takes a lot of planning, and materials—and besides, he's not convinced that the trees in the back yard would be suitable. Jack deflates. But, Dean says, struck hard by an idea which makes him grin stupidly, they could get the materials together to start building a boat—just a little row boat—which they could go fishing on. It could be their project, for the next few months.

Jack loves this idea. They spend all of Sunday researching, and then buying the supplies.

It's tiring work.

They collapse on the armchairs in the living room, in the late afternoon.

"What's your favourite kind of food?" Dean asks, after the pair have watched a few episodes of cartoons.

Jack thinks for a while, then answers with a face-splitting smile.

"Pancakes."

"Okay," Dean laughs, "but I meant for dinner. What do you want for dinner?"

"Pancakes," Jack repeats with a frown.

"Yeah, that's not, like, a traditional dinner."

"Well, who made that rule?" Jack asks, with an expression which Dean knows he'll look back on and smile at.

He hesitates, then sighs.

"Well, fuck it," he shrugs. "Cas isn't here to tell us off, and I think it's worth celebrating the week we just had."

"Celebrating?" Jack repeats, following Dean down the hall and into the kitchen.

"Sure," Dean smiles. "You had a good time this week, right?"

"Of course," Jack confirms.

"And I think it's worth celebrating me getting to know someone like you," Dean states, pulling out a mixing bowl. "C'mon, grab me the flour."

"Someone like me?" Jack asks, as Dean begins to measure out the ingredients.

"Sure," he nods. "You're pretty cool, Jack," he smiles, and Jack's eyes warm, even as he inclines his head.

"You're, um—'pretty cool', too."

Dean doesn't miss the way Jack tries to mirror his stance and tone and he says this. It's as hilarious as it is endearing.

Jack talks excitedly the whole way through dinner—it's a stark contrast to the Jack of two weeks ago, who would stay quiet and awkward at the dinner table, who seemed worried every syllable would aggravate Dean. Not any more—now the kid can't stop talking, he gestures, and makes expressions to himself as he speaks and Dean just sits back and makes occasional noises of affirmation or engagement, enjoying the show Jack doesn't even realise he's putting on. And Dean feels guilt and sadness that it took fourteen years for someone to intervene in Jack's life, fourteen years of Jack being, by his own admission, poisoned, beaten about and not realising the beating was wrong and not his fault, for someone to intervene.

But the kid's smiling, now—pouring way too much syrup on his pancakes, but that's fine, because Cas isn't here to complain about it and they're celebrating, after all, right? Celebrating Dean's son, the fact that Dean has a son.

Dean has a son who's weird and dorky and serious and excitable and curious about everything and a bit of a nerd and Dean loves the kid, so much.

Finally the time for Cas to be back comes around. It's not been a bad last week, after Claire's return, by any stretch—long dog walks and picking out animated movies Claire and Dean think Jack will like, working on the boat in the garage with Jack and resuming teaching Claire the drums. But damn, Dean has missed his husband. Missed the feeling of warm, strong arms slung protectively around his waist at night, missed pressing kisses to the dark hairline of the other man, missed sharing a workspace with Cas and glancing up every now and then to see how beautiful Cas's expression is when it's attentive and focussed on something. And it is beautiful.

Dean, Cas, and Claire all pile into the Impala to pick him up from the airport. They've made him a big Welcome Home banner, and Claire does very well at avoiding complaints about how embarrassing holding this up at the airport is.

When he appears at arrivals, Dean is steeped in relief and warmth.

But goodbyes with Cas were so weird, he isn't sure where they stand with hellos, now.

Claire practically dances over to him and gives him a big hug, beaming and rocking side to side. Jack smiles inquisitively and approaches and Castiel squeezes his arm before pulling him into a hug.

Dean stays back, still holding the banner.

"No 'Shakespeare' on this one?" Castiel asks, raising his eyebrows as he approaches, and Dean laughs nervously.

"No," he admits. "But in my defence, I don't need to try so desperately to flirt with you, any more."

Castiel chuckles, laughter coming out a little fragmented. Apparently he's thinking about the last time they saw each other, too.

But his thumb grazes Dean's chin, and he pulls his husband toward him for a kiss. Dean's lashes flutter. He kisses back.

"I missed you," Dean says, and Cas smiles.

"I'm glad I'm back."

Dean helps Cas with his bags, and they walk back to the car, while Claire chatters excitedly to Cas about camp and what she learnt and what she did and what it's made her want to do next.

Dean doesn't miss the way Cas's eyes are trained on every interaction between Dean and Jack.

They load up the trunk, and all of them get in.

Castiel updates them on how his stay in the UK was, how his lectures went, who he caught up with and what they did.

"Bela sends her love," he smiles to Dean, and Dean's mouth quirks upwards.

"Yeah? How's she going? Broken the billionaire threshold, yet?"

Cas rolls his eyes.

"Not long, I'll bet," Dean grins.

Claire makes a joke about guillotines which makes Dean choke with laughter and nearly crash the car.

"Dean!" Cas exclaims.

"Maybe I should drive," Jack says, seriously, and Castiel chuckles. "Why's that funny?" Jack asks, expression twitching, perplexed. "I'm good at it."

Oh, fuck.

"What?" Cas frowns.

"I'm good at it?" Jack repeats.

"Good one, Jack."

"No," Jack frowns at Claire, "I really am. Dean said so."

Dean stares at the road. He can feel Cas's steady, accusing gaze on him.

Oh, fuck.

"What?"

"While he was teaching me."

"What?!"

It's harder to tell who's more pissed off—Cas, or Claire.

"You taught Jack to drive before me? But I'm the oldest!"

"You taught Jack to drive?!" Cas asks, eyes wide and flashing threateningly. "He's fourteen!"

"No, I noticed, actually," Dean frowns, "and I didn't teach him how to drive, I just—" he fumbles for his words. "I was teaching him how to repair cars, and he was enjoying it so much—and he's such a quick learner—"

"Thank you," Jack beams genuinely, not seeming to pick up the looming conflict in the car.

"So you just let him get behind the wheel?!"

"Not—not just let—"

"I'm gone for less than a month—"

"I'm the oldest," Claire whines, and Dean groans.

"I was—it was just a little test drive—and the little dude did amazingly, you should've seen him—"

"Thank you," Jack beams again.

"And it was—" Dean tries.

"It should've been me!" Claire exclaims.

"—A one-off," Dean continues, "just to introduce him. It wasn't in the centre of town or anything—"

"Oh, well that's something," Cas rolls his eyes.

"Just on our road—and down towards the farms—"

"So not just on our road."

"It should've been me!"

"Claire, keep complaining, and see how keen I am to teach you how to drive. Go on."

"In this car?" Cas asks. "This car, which you wouldn't let me put my feet up on the dashboard of—"

"Oh, like that stopped you," Dean rolls his eyes. "Look, the scuffmarks from your goddamn Doc Martens are still there," he points over to them, and Cas leans forward with a frown to examine where Dean gestures.

"Huh," he says. "Oh, yeah."

"Oh, yeah," Dean mimics.

"I could teach you how to drive, Claire," Jack suggests, good-naturedly, not realising how unhelpful this is.

This makes even Claire and Castiel laugh.

Cas watches Dean and Jack's interactions all night with an expression that is both familiar and new.

They eat some of the fish Dean and Jack have caught this week for dinner, Jack excitedly telling Cas about all their fishing trips, and repeating all the tips and phrases Dean has given him, over the past few weeks, on the matter. He spends half the time copying Dean, in his manners and expressions, and the other half getting too excited by the charade and breaking character.

He tells Cas about their boat, and is glowing with pride, and Cas's gaze slides over to Dean when Jack is busy sharing info on the kind of fish they're eating, every now and then glancing at Dean to check he's got the facts right, and for encouragement. Dean nods and gives a small smile every time, pressing Jack to continue. The look in Cas's eyes, as he stares at Dean… It steals Dean's breath away.

And then Jack calls Dean dad, which is, to be fair, what he's been doing for the past two weeks, but Dean has to look away from Castiel completely, because looking at him is like looking at him on the first day of shiva. An explosion of longing.

"So it was…" Cas starts, when Jack's exhausted himself, and happily sits at the table, eating his fish and bouncing his knees. "…A good few weeks?"

"The best few weeks ever," Jack beams. "But," he adds quickly and thoughtfully, "I'm extremely glad you're back."

"Well, I'm extremely glad that you're glad," Cas chuckles. "And extremely glad to be back, too."

"Everyone's here," Jack smiles. "Where we should be."

"Where we should be?" Cas raises his eyebrows.

"Home," Jack says.

"Sure seems that way," Dean quirks a smile and messes at Jack's hair.

"You… Castiel… Claire?" Jack says, and smiles warm and ethereal, looking so much like Cas for a moment it's almost bewildering that Castiel is only his foster-father, "You're my family."

Dean nearly chokes.

"Yes we are," he confirms. And Cas looks at Dean like he's seeing colour for the first time.

Jack seems burnt out by all his chatter and goes to bed pretty early, accepting the hot chocolate Dean offers him, while Claire stays up to watch some 90s teen movie, twirling a drumstick in her hand as she does.

Cas says he's jetlagged and wants to sleep when Claire asks if he wants to watch, too.

But he drags Dean upstairs with him.

And kisses Dean's lips raw that night.

"Thank you so much, Dean,"

"For what?" Dean laughs breathlessly, pinned against the door.

"You know what for," Cas murmurs. "I was so worried," he admits.

"I know."

"I'm sorry—"

"You were right," Dean shakes his head. "You were right about it all."

"No, I wasn't putting enough faith in you," Cas pulls back. "Or acknowledging everything you've gone through, enough. Just gave it surface-level nods, not recognising the depth of all those wounds, all that damage—"

"Cas it's fine," Dean denies, "Jack's a kid, who was hurt over and over, never had the opportunity to learn what was happening to him or interrogate what he was learning. He's a kid, and he has a huge heart, like you said. I loved getting to know him, while you were gone. Even though it hurt that you were gone."

"You're an amazing father," Cas grazes his nose against Dean's. "I always knew you would be."

Dean's heart swells even as he reddens.

"Yeah, well, you too."

"I mean it."

"We should adopt Jack," Dean says. "His biological dad's lost all parental rights. And we've been fostering him for a few months, now. It'd be pretty simple. Easy. And like he said—he's part of the family. He deserves to have it made official."

"I love you," Castiel sighs, shaking his head, before pressing his face to Dean's shoulder.

"Yeah," Dean chuckles, heart thrilling in his chest. He twines his fingers through Cas's dark tufts of hair. He's missed this hair. Missed the feel of it against his palm as he ruffles it. Missed the short hairs at the back of Cas's head prickling at his fingertips. Missed the smell, missed the sight. Sometimes the raw fact of his physicality with Cas—his ability, now, to be physical with Cas, to touch and graze and stroke—still overwhelms him. Makes his head feel heavy. Makes him feel heady. "I love you, too."

"I missed you," Cas's teeth graze at Dean's neck. His lashes flutter.

"Uh-huh?" Dean asks, still pressed against the door. His lungs feel too big for his chest. "What did you miss?"

Cas lifts his head to look at Dean long-sufferingly.

"Dean," he says, unimpressed.

"Go on," Dean grins, but its loose around his features and his heart hums in his chest.

"Definitely not your incessant need for compliments," Cas answers seriously, and Dean wrinkles his nose, still smiling. The gesture makes Cas's lips play upward.

"I missed the sound of your laugh," Cas states, voice softer, now. Dean licks his lips, warmth spreading to his fingertips.

"What else?" He asks, voice quiet and nearly hoarse.

"Your laughs, in response to your own jokes," Cas elaborates, and Dean sticks his tongue out. "I missed your jokes," Cas smiles, sincerely, affectionately. "I missed your teasing. I missed your ability to make everything fun—there were some really boring parts of this stay in England. I wished you were around to pull faces at."

"What else?" Dean asks, but he's already practically glowing. Castiel chuckles, grazes the tip of his nose against Dean's again.

"I missed watching you interact with our kids. It gives me so much joy, seeing you be a dad."

"You know," Dean laughs breathlessly, "that day of shiva—where Mara dumped Beth on me—I so badly wanted to impress you. Wanted to make you think—wow, this guy would make such a good dad. People find that kind of thing attractive, as well, and I was so desperate for you to approve of me, again, I don't know. Same thing when you came in to see me teach. And when I was at your place for dinner, just before you flew back to the UK, and I sang Mara that lullaby. And every time we were with Zac and Amelia—and when my old students were at the treehouse—"

Cas's eyes are sparking with amusement.

"I can absolutely promise you I thought about that, every time," Castiel confirms.

"You're just saying that," Dean shakes his head, but his features are still playing upward.

"I'm not," Cas disagrees. "I really did. Every time, I thought what a good dad you'd be, and how attractive it was. And not just attractive. It always made me love you more. Could only make me love you more."

"What else did you miss?" Dean beams. Cas rolls his eyes.

"Your persistence," he deadpans.

"Uh-huh?" Dean doesn't rise.

"And your smile," Cas says, warmer, this time. His thumb comes to play delicately across Dean's bottom lip. "I missed this," he says, thumb grazing here, then up to his top lip. "And this," he says, eyes smoky. Something sharp and hot shoots through Dean, and he swallows. The gesture drags Cas's attention; his hand moves down to Dean's Adam's apple. "This," he says, thumb stroking across it. "These," he beams, grazing both his thumbs round the swirl of Dean's ears. Dean beams tries to lean into the contact, but already Cas is pulling him off the door and toward the bed. Dean nearly falls backwards onto his hands, shifting up the bed as Cas follows after him. "This," his eyes crinkle at their corners as he presses, a feather-light touch, the pad of his thumb to the very tip of Dean's nose. "Doing this," he bends, straddling Dean, to kiss him. And kiss him. "These," he takes Dean's hands and grazes his fingers along the ridges of Dean's knuckles. Dean's breathing is getting deep and ragged with love. "Doing this," he beams, and twines his hands with Dean's, laying each of their palms flat alongside each other.

His eyes flick up to Dean's. Dean nearly chokes with longing.

He never could've believed he'd be deserving of this kind of joy, of this kind of joy being an ordinary thing.

"What did you miss?" Castiel asks, gaze dancing.

"Everything," Dean shakes his head, staring up at his husband. "Everything. All of it. All of you."

"Now," Cas frowns, leaning down over Dean, "that's hardly fair. I practically gave you an essay, with examples, and you can't even name me something specific."

Dean tips his head back and laughs. His chest is too small to contain everything that's happening inside of him.

That night, he lists, lists everything he can think of, from the dimple in Cas's chin to the shape of his wrists, that he has longed and been pricked with longing for over the past few weeks, what he missed doing, what he missed being done, what he's missed touching, where he's missed being touched. Lying, Cas's arms wrapped snug around his waist, Cas's nose tucked just behind his ear, his back to Cas's chest, Dean says,

"This. I missed this."

He can feel Cas's sleepy smile into his skin.

"I missed it, too."

In a matter of months, Jack is a permanent part of the family. The growing family.

Sam and Eileen announce that Eileen's expecting a kid, one Saturday afternoon when they're round for lunch. Cold February light swells in the kitchen the same way Dean's heart does. He wrenches his brother into a hug while Jack asks Cas, a little too loudly, why it is Dean's crying at what should be happy news.

Jo and Anna get married in the spring. It's a ridiculously beautiful day, bloated with joy—Dean gives Ellen more hugs than even he can count—and it's crazy attending a wedding with your two teenage kids. Claire refuses not to wear her black leather jacket and boots on the day, but Dean doesn't feel the need to nag her about this. He's pretty sure it's a decision Jo would admire, anyway. Jack spends most of the day frowning quizzically at Gabe's jokes, and the rest of the time telling Dean he doesn't like wearing a suit, wrinkling his nose.

The brides are beautiful—duh—and Ellen cries, and of course Dean cries.

Not long after adopting Jack, Cas and Dean lie in the darkened bedroom, night draped like velvet around them.

"I want another," Dean says. Castiel frowns.

"Another?" He asks.

"I want another kid."

Cas huffs.

"Oh."

"Please?"

"Please," Castiel repeats this, rolling onto his back and repeating the word with a chuckle.

"We're good parents," Dean points out, and Castiel runs a hand through Dean's hair.

"Although it's probably not for us to be the final word on that."

"But we are," Dean says. "I want another," he pleas. "I want a baby. With you. Please?"

Castiel chuckles and kisses Dean.

"Let's talk about it in the morning, okay?"

Cas winds his arms around the trunk of Dean's body, presses a kiss to his shoulder.

They do talk the next morning. And start looking into it that evening.

Dean rushes to the hospital as soon as he gets the text from Sammy. He's working in fucking Missouri and he hits a slew of bad traffic and is nearly ripping his hair out, panicked and calling Sam, who of course isn't answering, and calling Cas, who is and tries futilely to soothe Dean, all the way there.

When he finally arrives at the ward, the baby's already long here. Sam is crowded onto Eileen's bed, his awkwardly long legs bent to accommodate this, the little bundle of person swaddled in Eileen's arms.

"Dean," Sam looks up as Dean bursts through the door, but Eileen is too distracted, brown eyes trained on the baby in front of her. "Hey."

"Fuck," Dean beams, but also can't beam, stepping into the room and staring. A decade ago, he'd had fears Sam wouldn't make it past twenty-five. Now look at him. "Sorry it took me so long to get here, I—"

"You timed it perfectly," Sam shakes his head, eyes warm. "The little guy's just settled down."

In all the wide and wandering world, there isn't a word for what Dean's feeling.

"He's," Dean takes a step toward the bed, staring at the baby, "you guys, he's beautiful."

"You want to have a formal introduction?" Sam asks, eyes sparking with something happy and secret and excited.

"Feel like if I shake his hand, he'll probably wake up," Dean points out, and Sam pulls a face. Dean moves round to Eileen's side of the bed to get a proper view of his nephew. A tiny button nose, bright pink skin, bulging eyes squished up in sleep. Exhausted, and Dean can't blame the kid. One week early. Couldn't wait to see the world. The child already has a mop of Sam and Eileen's dark hair.

"Dean, why don't you say hello to your uncle?" Sam asks, smiling warm and clandestine and tender.

"Nephew," Dean corrects with a frown, "and I'm saying hello."

Sam smirks, eyes two small, bright fires.

"Cool," he says, but something in his tone lets Dean know it's tongue in cheek. "Dean, why don't you say hello to your uncle?" He repeats, and Dean looks back over to him, confused. Eileen glances up at Dean, dark brown eyes glittering. A small smile twitches at her features.

"Huh?" Dean frowns, looking from Eileen, to the baby, to Sam. "I—already—"

He looks down at the baby, and Sam starts laughing warmly, and Eileen beams up at him, and Dean's throat closes.

"You—" he tries, and his heart is a raw and open wound—but 'wound' is wrong, wound is damage, this is cleansing. "You—Dean," he says, and looks back over to Sam, and Sam wrinkles his nose.

"Personally, I think it's a dorky name—but I used to know this guy called Dean, and I figured—"

Dean cups a hand over his mouth and shakes his head, the world outside his lungs turning into a vacuum and sucking all the air out of them.

"Sammy," he says, "you don't need to—"

"Oh my god, if you try and turn it down," Sam rolls his eyes.

"Dean, do you think you need to sit down?" Eileen asks, glancing worriedly at Dean's shaky legs. Dean swallows thickly, head feeling hollow, and pulls up a chair, staring at the baby. Baby Dean.

Baby Dean.

"You okay, dude?" Sam asks, leaning forward, smiling kind, earnest, affectionate. Dean looks up at him and shakes his head.

"I," he tries, "Sammy, you don't have to—"

"Yeah, we know. No-one was holding a gun to our heads while the birth certificate was being written," Sam laughs. Dean shakes his head.

"Don't be an ass, I'm in shock."

"Okay, well, we felt we owed it to you. After everything you've done for us, done for me," Sam says, and Dean thinks, what the hell have I done? To name your kid after me? "And anyway, you're my big brother. There's nobody I admire more." Dean nearly chokes, but Sam adds, "And don't expect to hear me say that again. Ever. It was a one-time thing."

Dean laughs tearily.

He asks a few questions—how heavy is baby Dean? How tall?—but Eileen falls asleep about five minutes in.

Dean stares at the baby, which Sam has taken from her arms.

"Wanna hold him?" Sam asks, and Dean swallows and nods.

"Yeah," he admits. "For sure."

Sam gets up softly to not disturb Eileen and brings the baby over to Dean. Another Dean—Dean Winchester-Leahy? Dean Leahy-Winchester?—and this Dean is so small in big-Dean's arms; tiny red hands balled tight, stirring slightly in the blankets wrapped around him.

"He's so beautiful," Dean repeats, looking up to Sam, eyes watery again.

"Don't start saying he takes after his namesake," Same quips, sitting on the end of the bed, opposite Dean.

"Sam," Dean tries, staring at his brother. "I don't think I deserve—"

"I don't know how it is that you can say that," Sam shakes his head, expression slipping into something more sombre. "Dean," he says, like it's a plea.

"You talking' to me, or to the baby?" Dean tries, with a self-conscious attempt at a grin, disliking the intensity of this moment.

"I owe the past few years, which have been the happiest of my life, to you," Sam says, seriously. "I owe it to you. I know you don't like hearing that. I know it's intense. But I can't thank you—there's no way of thanking you. Not for the money you poured into me—for law school, then hospitals, rehab, shrinks, paying my rent. You worked so much just to keep me afloat. I wasn't good at thanking you for that—the—the burden, of dropping out of law school, knowing how much you'd given, given up, just to get me there—"

"That doesn't matter," Dean shakes his head quickly, but Sam sighs out,

"Yes it does," over Dean. "Let me thank you, jeez. Sometimes I couldn't thank you, because I felt so much shame. But you kept me afloat, when I was mired in so much. You kept on keeping me afloat, even though it hurt you. You took me in to your apartment, rent free, you helped me stay clean, you helped me look for jobs, you even broke things off with Cas, thinking you couldn't leave me—or Ellen—while we were still recovering. You were even the one who finally made sure I made a move with Eileen," Sam says, and Dean lets out a teary chuckle, at this, because this one is definitely true.

"I was so glad we got close again," Dean confesses, and Sam smiles, bittersweet. "I hated those years when we weren't."

"Me too." A moment's quiet. "I really can't give you enough gratitude for what you did for me, who you were for me. For years. There aren't words, and I keep on asking myself if I should start trying to pay you back for the amount of money you spent—"

"Don't you dare," Dean shakes his head, and Sam licks his lips and chuckles.

"Yeah, I figured you'd say something like that," he says. A nervous muscle in Dean's jaw works. "Listen… I'm saying… I'm saying nothing I could think of felt like enough."

"There is no 'enough', Sammy," Dean frowns, "you're my brother, I didn't do it in the hope of—I don't know, reward, compensation? Seeing you healthy, seeing you happy, hell, that was my dream for years—"

"Well, it's thanks to you it came true. I know that you don't like to talk about that stuff. But I love you, Dean. Naming our child after you, after everything you did, after how you supported me—emotionally, financially, practically… It's such a no-brainer. Like not even something up for debate. Me and Eileen didn't even hesitate, talking about names."

"I'm so proud of you, Sammy," Dean says, instead of acknowledging the weight of his brother's words, because it hurts too much. Sam's eyes crinkle at their corners and Dean thinks back to when Sam was lying in a hospital bed after pumping his body with too much beautiful poison, scaring a drunken Dean out of his mind, and making it through the night, and Dean sitting beside Sam's bed sporting the biggest hangover of his life, and Sam nudging Dean ever so softly in the direction of honesty, opening the door of the closet and asking without words, without Dean realising it, if Dean was ready to come out of it, yet, if only to Sam. And Dean had wordlessly said yes, and Sam had smiled like he knew everything in the universe and nothing in the world could surprise him, like he was some new absolving kind of prophet, a clairvoyant with corrupted veins, a mage whose magic was forged around tragedy but also around understanding it, and had seen Dean and understood Dean and said that he could see and understand him, and that he was glad to. Dean had been so afraid of hellfire, hellbound, and Sam whose life had seen so many flames—his dad, his fiancé—had found some atoning resonance in that sentiment and known what words and gestures and intonation and exactly what fit of his smile would be like cool, cleansing summer rain, freshwater, mist on verdant grass.

"Never heard that one before," Sam teases, and Dean wants to roll his eyes, but finds he can't. Sam's given him something he doesn't have a name for. How did God and all his Angels choose what to call the land and all that lived on it? How did they describe what it made them feel?

Dean had worried and fretted for years that he would one day no longer be able to call himself a brother—are you still a brother if your only brother is dead?—he'd stared at the ceiling of his apartment, into the early hours, wondering when the next call would come, telling him his brother was once again caught in a reel with melancholy and ecstasy and death. He'd taken the small victories: Sam replying to his messages, persuading Sam to shower, taking Sam shopping for new clothes. Now he gets big ones—victories the size of whole universes, literally a whole new little universe lies in Dean's arms right now. And Sam gave the universe Dean's name. Like it was nothing at all, and not everything, everything to Dean.

She's so fucking small. She's so tiny. So unbelievably tiny and beautiful and alien looking—Jack frowns down at her and asks if all babies look like this, look this strange.

Dean laughs, and says he's glad Jack didn't say this about Sam and Eileen's kid, when he was born, but Claire is massively offended. And enamoured with the tiny little bundle of person who's been named Elanor—which is almost too perfect. They're gonna call her "Ellen" for short.

Dean's heart is caught in an upward beat.

"She can share my room," Claire says, even though they've set up the cot in Dean and Cas's room, at least for the first few months, to keep a proper eye on her. "I don't mind."

"Uh-huh?" Dean asks with a chuckle. "That sure is thoughtful of you."

But Claire doesn't even register the teasing. Her eyes are glassy.

She holds Elanor every opportunity she gets. Adores the fact of being an older sister.

Dean glances happily at Castiel. They sit in front of the fire in the living room, Elanor in his arms—though he's sure Claire is gonna steal her, any minute. Cas smiles, and grazes his fingertips against Elanor's forehead. She has huge round cheeks and big interested bright eyes and little elf ears and a perfect button nose, and when she giggles it's like someone's inflating a balloon in Dean's chest, and he knows that because this is his and Cas's little girl, he's gonna be a little biased, but everyone who meets her is smitten, finds her smiles and laughter infectious. She's a goddamn angel.

"Remember when Mara made you hold Beth, during shiva?" Cas asks, and Dean's gaze flickers over to him.

"You thinkin' about that, right now?"

"Of course," Cas chuckles, and draws closer to Dean. "And how she did is as a kind of test?"

"Like an initiation," Dean chuckles.

"Yes," Castiel smiles, glancing down at Elanor. "In this very room. When I saw you holding her, I—" he shakes his head wistfully. "It was like my heart was hit by a freight train." Dean basks as Cas speaks. "I hated how much I adored seeing you be amazing with kids."

"The phrase 'husband material' ever flash through your head, over those days?"

"Undoubtedly," Cas chuckles. He presses a kiss to Dean's cheek. "And I'd like to point out, I was very right."

Dean grins.

"And I couldn't work out why you were still single," Cas recalls, and tips his head back to laugh. "There you were, drop-dead gorgeous, kind, funny, loyal, amazing with kids. For a while I was convinced your declarations of wanting to settle down and start a family were bullshit. And then when I realised they weren't, I was like, then why is nobody marrying this guy?"

Dean laughs, cheeks hot, and grazes his shoulder against Castiel's.

"Oh, get a room, you two," Claire rolls her eyes. "Fucking disgusting." Dean grins at her, but she pulls a face back, getting up and takes Elanor off Dean. "I'm confiscating her," she says, matter-of-factly, "until the two of you stop being gross."

"They're very in love," Jack says, seriously. He watches the flames. "I can tell."

Dean barks out a laugh.

"Your powers of observation are unrivalled," Claire quips, Elanor taking hold of her pinkie finger and trying to chew on it.

"Dean says I'm very perceptive," Jack says. Cas tangles his hand with Dean's.

"Really? He calls me certifiable," Claire pulls a thoughtful expression, and Dean snorts.

"You get it from my side," he shrugs, able to make out Cas's frown at him in his peripheries. Jack doesn't get it, and does that head incline thing which can't do anything except remind Dean of Cas.

"Sometimes I don't think I'm as perceptive as Dean says," Jack says, honestly, and Claire, Cas and Dean burst out laughing.

"You're a gem, is what you are," Dean's eyes crinkle. "And a special kind of perceptive. Not many people are."

Elanor's first time crawling. Elanor's first steps. Elanor's first words. Dean's heart becomes an elated tremor at each of these moments. He becomes one of those boring dads who's always talking about his children, he cuts down his hours at the studios so he has more time with them, he fundamentally fucking hates every trip he has to take to L.A. or London or wherever the hell it is for work or premiers or ceremonies, when he has to be apart from Cas, Claire, Jack, and Elanor. The few articles that talk about him call him a 'family man' and 'devoted father' and Dean thinks damn, how could he not be? Have they seen his family? How could anyone have such a husband, such kids, and not be dedicated to them entirely?

Where possible, they turn these necessary trips into family vacations—it's exciting for Dean to see, he never really got to travel, much, growing up—and he watches as Jack and Claire take in new settings, call dibs on the nicest bedrooms, rush down to the pool or beach. Elanor, being so much younger, obviously doesn't much understand what a holiday is, but still beams as she takes stumbling, determined steps after her older brother and sister, shouting her infant-tongue versions of their names—Dack and Glare. Claire did not take kindly to Dean's joke that 'Glare' is an appropriate nickname for her.

And life in the big white house opposite the green house continues, opens, like a tree ever in blossom. Sam and Eileen and little Dean are always over, and Dean gets nicknamed Big Dean by the kid and it seems to stick, Jo and Claire both think it's hilarious and more than once Ellen slips into calling Dean by that name.

Claire weeps when she leaves for college. She holds a toddler Elanor tight and cries and cries and little Elanor doesn't understand why. And Dean cries and hugs Claire hard and finds it impossible to believe that this girl, this young woman, was the teenager who stormed into him and Cas's life together and threw shit against the walls and cussed and spat and shouted and ran away and smoked weed out of her open window.

Well—this last one she still does, to be fair.

Claire brings this dorky stuffed cat toy Cas got her, years ago, in her early months in the big white house when Cas was panicked about how to bond with Claire and Claire was bulshy and resentful. Dean spots it in her bag.

Ellen comes too, to drop Claire off, a warm and essential part of their strange family unit, after all, and probably breaks a few of Claire's ribs with the goodbye hug she gives. Then again, maybe Claire breaks a few of hers, with the hug she gives back.

And when she goes to hug Cas, she starts sobbing into his shoulder. He holds onto her tight and looks like, for a lot of reasons, he doesn't know what to do.

"I love you, dad," she says. She takes Dean's hand and pulls him into the hug. "Both of you." They hold onto her, tight. "Thanks, for—for giving me a home that's so hard to leave."

The house feels too quiet after she leaves. The walls too far apart. The bricks too still, lain against one another cold and hard as teeth in a corpse's jaw. So strange that an angry, indignant teenage girl stormed into their lives, all scowls and resentment, and burrowed so deep into their hearts that saying goodbye felt like losing a limb. Who could've predicted it?

"This house is too big," Jack frowns thoughtfully at the hall as they enter, without Claire, without Claire to push past, swing round the bannisters and hammer up the stairs, drop her leather jacket somewhere it doesn't live and bitch at Dean for picking it up and hanging it somewhere it should live. No Claire to hang off the doorframes and ask what Dean's gonna cook for dinner, or for a ride to an underground gig, or a friend's place where she's definitely gonna be drinking. No Claire to pour salt in Dean's coffee when he's not looking, and snort and stomp with laughter when he inevitably chokes on it. No Claire to steal Dean and Cas's liquor—which they try to keep locked up in the cabinet, but of course Claire can pick locks, somehow—no Claire to steal the liquor without a care for its age or price or quality, and water it down in the hopes that Dean and Castiel won't notice. Of course they notice. Of course they should tell her off for this—but something about it is almost endearing—the fact Dean and Cas used to do this, with Jimmy? Or the fact that Jimmy himself would have to respect Claire's ingenuity?

Dean's throat is tight.

"Maybe," Dean concedes gruffly, and sets his jaw hard as he walks into the study and closes the door and picks up the guitar Cas got him, age eighteen, and his notebook, and cries for a few sodden hours. Ellen knocks tentatively at the door at around 7:30, having stayed in the big white house in anticipation of… well, probably, Dean being like this.

"Hey there, sad dad," she says, and Dean tries to snort a laugh, but only sniffles, lip trembling. He leans back on the couch Jimmy's patients used to sit on while recounting their troubles to the dark haired man. His guitar is balanced on his knee, notebook open and scrawled on at the coffee table in front of the couch. "Your beautiful husband suggested ordering pizza."

Dean nods, throat tight, remembering the pizza he made with Claire after the storm of her getting suspended, overhearing Dean in his exhausted vulnerability and rejection, her smashing up Dean's most expensive guitar and breaking down in fear of abandonment.

He remembers the steady unsteady rebuilding that took place that day. And every day since. He remembers Claire's face as Dean told her she was meant to be kneading the dough, not tickling it. He remembers Claire's nervous expression immediately after she threw flour at him, and her relieved grin when Dean burst out laughing at it.

"Yeah," Dean nods, heart hurting. "That sounds good."

"You've been busy venting your man-pain?" Ellen asks, stepping into the room and approaching the couch, gesturing to Dean's notebook sat on the coffee table.

"Trying to," Dean shrugs, avoiding Ellen's gaze and vaguely embarrassed by how hurt he finds himself at his oldest daughter doing something very reasonable: progressing with her life and growing, steadily, up. "And hey, it's not man-pain. Just…"

"Pain pain?" Ellen asks softly, eyes tender as she smiles at Dean. He nods reluctantly. She sits down on the couch with him.

"Yeah…"

"When Jo moved," Ellen starts, reaching out to rest a hand on Dean's shoulder, "I felt like I was choking. This strange, painful sensation of realising I was very old, and suddenly alone."

"You're not very old," Dean frowns, and Ellen tuts and rolls her eyes as if to say gee, thanks. "And definitely not alone."

"But it's isolating, and sad, watching your kid grow up and take a step in their lives that very obviously marks that."

"Yeah," Dean nods, drawing in a shaky breath. His fingers graze the higher strings of his guitar and they hum out something soft and quiet and trembling into the still air, pressing at its stagnant melancholy with the promise of melody. He shifts the instrument off his lap and puts it on the floor, leaning it up against the arm of the couch. "I feel," he tries, but can't finish the thought, can't even articulate it. "I feel," he tries again, tears springing to his eyes, but he can't breathe out, the air stammers in his lungs.

"Hey," Ellen's hand moves to take his. "I get it. You've been writing music?" She asks, and gestures to the notebook on the table. Dean nods. "That's good."

Dean shrugs and isn't sure what 'good', here, means.

"I wasn't ready for her to grow up."

"Nobody ever is."

"If I'm asked to work on the score of a movie for lonely parents or the agony of growing up, I'll have the perfect thing," Dean finally manages to huff out with a laugh, and Ellen smiles sadly and pulls him in for a hug.

"I'll call Greta Gerwig and let her know."

Dean snorts and curls into Ellen's shoulder.

"Dammit, Ellen, you know you're one of the best things in my life?"

"Cute."

"I fucking mean it. I adore you." Dean pulls back to stare earnestly at her. "I wouldn't have made it, the past ten years, without you around, to… to…"

"Nag you?"

"Be a mom to me," Dean answers honestly.

"Now look at you," Ellen tries to tease, "goin' all soft. Fatherhood suits you."

"I mean it."

"Well, I wouldn't have done too well, the past few years, without you around to help me out, take care of me—"

Dean cuts Ellen off again by hugging her tight.

"It was nothing."

"Not nothing."

"I'd do it a thousand times over."

"Once was enough," Ellen chuckles. "I'm so proud of how far you've come, Dean," he can feel her face crease up in a smile. "From when you first started working in the Roadhouse, closed off and secretive, so guarded, to when you first started asking for—or at least accepting—help. From you juggling so many jobs, so many burdens, you feeling so alone. From—from the day I came to this house with you, after Jimmy died, during shiva, to you telling me the truth about who you are, from you being so brave and being a couple with Cas in front of me, you winning awards, you getting engaged, you adopting Claire and persisting with her, and then Jack, even when it hurt, and little Elanor, and now seeing your oldest off to college—you deserve to hear it, Dean. You're a good man. A great dad."

"Ellen—"

"Dad," Jack knocks at the door, "other dad is saying to hurry up and tell him what kind of pizza you want. He's hungry and wanted to order an hour ago. He also says," Jack frowns as though trying to recall the exact phrasing, "if he takes any longer he's sleeping on the couch. I told him that didn't seem very sensible, there's a guest bedroom and you could at least sleep there, a couch wouldn't be very comfortable to sleep on, but he said that's the point, and I said—"

"It's okay Jack, I get it," Dean chuckles tearily, getting up. "I'll tell the grumpy little bastard my order."

They start fostering Jacob about six months after Claire leaves for college. She comes back to visit the day he arrives, under the guise of wanting a break from college and work. Jack's all excitement to have a younger brother—and Elanor, who's the same age as the new child they're taking in, is all empathetic curiosity and determinedly sharing her things and beaming up at Dean or Castiel every five minutes. Jacob seemed like a great match for their family because they're all pretty much fluent in ASL—well, it's hard for Elanor to be, being a toddler, but she's got all the basic words a toddler might find themselves using—and Jacob is partially deaf.

The little guy is adorable—big brown eyes which are expressive and constantly distracted. He loves being outside and, they quickly discover, adores drawing and crayons and making a mess with paints. He's as stubborn as Elanor is generous and as the weeks trail into months the two make for the strangest, sweetest duo. Elanor is convinced Jacob is her twin, even though the two of them look nothing alike—inspired, Dean guesses, by Zac and Amelia, who're now a couple of tweens and therefore everything fascinating to a young child and worth aspiring toward.

Jack gets into Stanford—motivated, of course, by Sam, who the kid adores and always has. Dean spends the first week of his absence so anxious he converts the basement into a den for the kids and a spare bedroom, tidies and sorts the entirety of the garage, services his car, services the family car, and calls Lawrence High to ask if they need a new—old—music teacher. And then, after an entire week of him being away, Jack finally decides to videocall Dean and Cas and Elanor and Jacob, to tell them how he's settling in. Jacob and Elanor are immediately bubbling with excitement to see Jack's face up on the screen of Dean's laptop, and Jacob's signing home, when? When are you home? And a sharp pang of homesickness shoots through Dean even though he's at home, he is home. So why the longing? Jacob signs miss, I miss you, and Jack beams and signs it back and Dean balls his fists at his legs and looks down at the table they're sat at. Cas asks how college is and Jack gushes about what he's learning and gives them a tour of his dorm and tells them about his roommate, who likes 'Dean's music' and comes from Fresno—like this is anything interesting, and Cas chuckles at the news, but Dean feels too sad.

It's relieving to hear that the kid is happy—Dean had worried, Jack being Jack, that he wouldn't enjoy college, leaving home—but it still hurts, and it hurts more feeling like he's not needed.

Elanor puts a small hand on his arm while Jack and Cas and Jacob catch up.

"Are you okay, daddy?"

Dean swallows thickly and looks down at her. People who don't know that she's adopted are always saying that she has Dean's eyes. She's this soft and ethereal kid and it doesn't help that half the time she talks it's with outstandingly mature words and sentiments, the other half in eerie riddles—Cas never helped by reading her Yeats poetry at bedtime, like any kid raised on that wouldn't turn out wispy and wild—and she does weird shit like threading leaves through her hair and whispering to plants. Adults are equal parts endeared by her and freaked out by her.

"Yeah, of course, sweetie," he lies, and Elanor frowns at the lie.

"You look sad."

"Well," he tries, "it's a sad kind of happy, watching your kids grow up. Sometimes just sad. Sometimes growing up is sad."

"The littlest deaths," Elanor nods seriously, and Jesus Christ, what have Dean and Cas raised. Some benign little wraith.

"Uh-huh," he frowns softly, as Elanor takes one of his hands in her own tiny ones. He's gonna tell Cas to read her less poetry from people who regularly attempted to commune with the next world.

He can't believe of all their kids, Claire is the most normal. It's a close call between her and Jacob, but that kid thinks so outside of the box that there is no box at all, that Dean's almost certain by the time he hits middle school he's gonna be throwing things against the walls of the classrooms in frustration.

Claire brings one of her college friends, Kaia, to stay with them during one vacation. Dean asks if he should set up the guest bedroom for Kaia, but Claire just pulls a quizzical expression and says of course not.

Dean doesn't get the meaning behind the expression until he walks in on Claire and Kaia kissing in the living room late one night. He'd come downstairs to grab a book for Cas, which his husband had said was on the windowsill. Dean blinks and flushes at the doorway.

"Fuck—sorry," he fumbles, and knocks his head on the swinging door, which makes Kaia suppress a smile and Claire scowl.

"Dad!"

"Sorry—I didn't—you guys are," Dean fumbles, and Claire glowers.

"Haven't you heard of knocking?!"

"Not to the living room," Dean shoots back, rubbing his forehead where he hit it. Ouch. And whatever happened to Dad, are you okay? Pretty nasty knock, there. "You guys are—were—Claire—I didn't know you were—I mean, obviously it's fine—obviously, look at me and Cas—but I didn't know that you liked—"

"You hadn't come out to your dad, yet?" Kaia asks, glancing at Claire, brow slanted and knotted with concern.

"I hadn't assumed I needed to," Claire grumbles indignantly, pulling a face at Dean, "considering the fact that everyone in this fucking family is pretty gay."

"Well, me and Cas," Dean admits, "and Jo and Anna. And Dot and Charlie are like family, and I feel like Sammy's definitely had a few crushes on dudes, and wouldn't mind me telling you that—" and he's always had his suspicions about Michael, actually, and is about to say this, but Claire interrupts his thoughts.

"Can you, like, go?"

"So you guys are dating?" Dean asks, not really registering her request, and Claire flushes.

"Dad, I said leave."

"I didn't interrupt like, a big love confession, or anything? 'Cause I know from experience how annoying that is—"

"Well you sure aren't acting like it," Claire's jaw sets.

"Sorry," Dean blinks, recovering himself, "I came down here to grab a book for Cas," he steps awkwardly into the room, and past Claire and Kaia, Claire whose jaw is set frustratedly as she watches him, Kaia, who bites her lip and looks vaguely embarrassed but definitely entertained. "Don't mind me," Dean finds himself saying in a weird fucking sing-song voice, holding onto the me for an absurd amount of time, so it's more of a Don't mind meeeee-eee, as he practically tiptoes to the windowsill to pick up the book in question. "Sorry, guys, I'll, uh, I'll get out of your hair. Sorry. Sorry," he says again, making his way back to the door again, and what a relief it is, too. "Sorry," he directs this one to Kaia, because Claire's got a vein in her temple which is popping out right now.

"That's alright, Mr Winchester," Kaia says, still a little uncomfortable. "It's really fine."

"Is it?" Claire murmurs under her breath, but Dean ignores it.

"Oh, please," he waves his hand to Kaia, "call me Dean. You can definitely call me Dean, now," he laughs, awkward, and he doesn't know why, and Claire is looking mortified, "seeing as you're—y'know—so close to Claire—"

"Dad," Claire says, as Kaia laughs nervously and thanks him.

"Right, yeah," Dean nods to his daughter, "sorry. Right. Getting out of your hair. Sorry." And ducks out of the room.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," he whispers quietly to himself as he climbs the stairs quietly and hears Kaia burst out laughing in the living room below, and Claire grumbling at her to shut up.

He opens the door to his and Cas's bedroom and there must be something in his expression that reads shock, because Cas sits up, adorable reading glasses on, a book on his lap, another three scattered around him on the bed, and asks if Dean is okay.

"Uh," Dean falters, frowning. "Claire has a girlfriend."

"Yeah," Cas returns the frown, giving Dean a funny look.

"You say that like you know."

"Well, they are sharing a room."

"Yeah, and we used to share a room all the time," Dean points out, and Cas raises his eyebrows. "Okay, bad example," Dean rolls his eyes, shutting the door behind him. Cas's reading lamp makes the room warm with yellow light. "But—but you had a small bed, Claire has a big bed—I guess I just assumed, I don't know—"

"Well, you should never assume, Dean," Cas shakes his head. "I try not to assume anything about our kids' gender or sexuality."

Goddammit, Dean married a smug bastard.

"You're a saint."

"I think you've just proven it's a pretty good maxim to live by."

"Why didn't she tell us?!"

"She's spent two months talking about Kaia on every video call we've had with her," Cas states. "I don't even think it's called reading between the lines, at this point—"

"No, if you're dating someone, you say you're dating someone," Dean grumbles, "otherwise everyone ends up confused."

"I can't believe I figured it out, and you didn't. I thought you were the one with social skills?"

"Social skills, not fucking—Sherlock Holmes—fucking—detective—"

"How did you figure it out?" Cas squints suspiciously.

"Uh," Dean squirms. He glances away.

"Dean," Cas says, voice heavy with accusation and gravity.

"You told me to get the book for you!" Dean exclaims. "You said it was in the living room! What was I meant to do?"

"Uh, knock?"

"What's everyone's obsession with knocking on living room doors, all of a sudden?"

"Well, when you know your daughter's down there with her girlfriend—"

"That's the whole point!" Dean hisses. "I didn't know!"

"I think you need to calm down."

"I am calm!" Dean exclaims, and Castiel raises his eyebrows. "Shut up."

"May I recommend some sleep?"

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I assumed you knew," Cas replies, a little defensively. "If I'd figured it out, I was almost certain you had."

"Well now, aren't you clever," Dean grumbles, fumbling off his shirt and getting into his pyjamas.

"I have a doctorate to prove it," Cas answers coolly, and Dean mimics him under his breath, pulling his pyjama top on.

"Sorry, what was that?" Cas asks. Dean slumps into bed.

"A whole girlfriend," he huffs, pulling the sheets over him.

"Yep, not even a half of one."

"Well, we were half boyfriends for a while," Dean points out, glancing over to Cas and smiling. Cas's lips twitch upwards.

"I suppose you could say that."

"Man," Dean shakes his head, "I guess I'm really clueless, huh?"

"Very," Cas answers, and isn't joking. "I tried to spell out how much I loved you for months and you didn't even notice."

"I just thought you were being nice."

"What were the moments you thought I wasn't?" Cas asks, marking his page in his book and closing it, turning to Dean.

"Huh?"

"What were the moments," Cas repeats, "where hope overcame doubt. Where you thought what you wanted was what you might end up getting?"

"I don't know," Dean admits, laughing but feeling suddenly a little sad. "There were… there were a lot of points I didn't really have any…"

Cas looks sad, too. He reaches out to cradle the back of Dean's neck.

"I don't like that."

"But you don't need to feel worried about it, any more," Dean shrugs.

Cas pulls an unconvinced expression. It makes Dean's insides glow, just knowing that Cas hates the thought of Dean feeling sad this much, even when the sadness in question is a decade in the past.

"Okay, when were the times I felt hope?" Dean asks, determined to cheer Cas up, running a hand through his hair. "Well—there were times when—when 'hope' wasn't exactly the word for it. Where you smiled at me, for the first time, in nine years. First day of shiva, sat on the living room floor. When you thanked me for coming. It felt like—like longing for you, aching for you, wasn't a bad thing. A pure kind of pain. A lot of the time, Cas," Dean laughs, "loving you was a pure kind of pain. Like touching hot iron."

Cas's hand moves to cradle his cheek. A steady fire is lit along all of Dean's skin.

"And when you said you liked my music, when you saw me play," Dean smiles. "I thought you'd figured it out, thought you knew the songs were for you."

"I guess you're not the only clueless one?" Cas asks. Dean chuckles.

"I didn't wanna be the one to say it."

"When else did you feel hope?" Cas asks. His face has inched closer to Dean's.

"When you texted me," Dean grins, "after our fight on what—the fifth, sixth day, of shiva?"

"Ah, yes, I remember."

"When did you feel hope?" Dean asks. Cas's eyes are smoky.

"When I heard you telling Mara about our nicknames," he answers without a pulse of hesitation. "It's—it's like you said. Maybe 'hope' isn't the right word. But then I don't know what would be. All I know is, there was so much warmth and longing in your voice when you told her that I used to call you Honeybee. And so much adoration when you said you used to call me Sunshine."

Dean beams.

"Used to?" He asks. "I still call you that."

Castiel leans forward to kiss him.

"Ironically, usually at night," Cas replies. He pulls back, and frowns. "What's the word?" He asks, and Dean smirks, not following. "The word that isn't hope, but is like it," Cas clarifies, glancing at Dean's expression.

"Wish?" Dean asks. "Dream?"

"No," Cas shakes his head, leaning back, frustrated. "Hurt, it was more like a hurt…"

Dean's brow twists, entertained but concerned.

"That's… not a good thing…"

"No, like picking off a scab. Peeling off scar tissue."

"Still not sounding good…"

"Prayer, it was prayer."

"Prayer?" Dean repeats. Cas nods, earnest, brow twined in thought.

"R. S. Thomas calls it the annihilation of difference—and that's what the longing became. The destruction of my resentment toward you, my bitterness. The expansion of my longing. Prayer—he—Thomas—describes it as the consciousness of myself in you, of you in me. That hope—that longing—it was like praying to you." Cas smiles at his own explanation. "Is that strange?"

"Longing?"

"I had a hunger. Like I'd been fasting. Like a man searching for religion. Like someone wandering misty hills for weeks."

"You know what tickles me?" Dean grins. "The fact that I, like ever, thought that you were straight."

Cas pretends to scowl.

"Again, clueless," he points out.

"You know when I really hoped?" Dean asks. "When I was like, overwhelmed with hope?"

"When?"

"When I stepped out of Mary's house, and you were sat up, on the roof," Dean says, "and you called my name."

Cas's eyes are half silver, half smoke.

"You said it felt like waking up.`'

"I did," Dean nods. "And it did. It was like the dawn. There's a reason I called you Sunshine, all those years. There's a reason I still do."

Another kiss. Lips soft with years of kissing. After years of longing.

Didn't Dean used to stab with yearning for this, this, late into the night? Wishing to watch Cas, once again, as he slept? Wishing to piece together words burning with purity and warmth across the tiny space of a pillow, shared? He has it, now. He has it, and a universe more.

"Goodnight, Honeybee," Cas hums, voice sweet and rough with love and sleep. Like trampled earth in the rain. Like a grief observed. Like a prayer heard after years of petition.